My paternal great-grandmother, Charlotte (Lottie for short)—whose husband Vernon came back from World War I as a cruel, shellshocked man incapable of providing for the family—forced to bear the weight of responsibility and open the first plant nursery in our hometown, resigned to her quiet strength, always tending to living things with care but never receiving that same treatment.
My maternal grandmother, Barbara, a reserved and emotionally detached woman who matter-of-factly confessed to my mother in 1998 that she and my grandfather Billy had not had sex in years. I would eventually come to learn that he preferred the company of other men, and looked back on the time when I was 13 where I had attempted to help him search for a long-lost military friend in a new light. Barbara developed dementia and wasted away into a whisper, but the last time I saw her, flashes of anger would rise to the surface: telling me to throw Billy down the staircase; that she hopes he’ll drown in his iced tea. During that visit, we discovered that her antique bisque dolls from her childhood in Iowa had been carelessly tossed into the unfinished attic, exposed to the elements and left to decay—just like her.
My mother, a woman I hated growing up until, to my horror, I came to understand exactly what made her into the monster she had been to me—like looking into the most humbling mirror. My father mocked her interests, dismissed her emotions, deprived her of affection, and poked and prodded her until she snapped.
My father, who tearfully confessed to me late one night, several beers in, his accent slipping into its latent southern drawl as it did when he was drunk, that he regretted not staying with the mother of his first daughter, Layla—named after the Eric Clapton song, conceived during a meth bender when they were 19, leading to a shotgun wedding and a marriage that ended too soon—and had to watch from afar as she suffered in a marriage to a man who was “a square” and didn’t see her.
My paternal grandfather, Herbert, who adored my grandmother Dorothea until her dying breath and kept her belongings and mementos all throughout the house like a mausoleum for about 20 years until he succeeded in drinking his way to joining her—her collections of antique bells and glass slippers, her embroideries, photos of her in Paris, her silver vanity set in the bedroom, her blank greeting cards and stationary, her cigarette-smoke-stained books in their library with notes stuffed into the pages and scribblings in the margins.
My maternal great-grandmother Katherine, who was left by her first husband—a man who never treated Barbara as his child—and married her second husband, a patient, stoic, loving farmer. In her old age after his death she joined a biker gang, wore leather studded gloves, and developed a love for the thrill of casual shoplifting.
My aunt Lisa, currently on her third marriage to a good ol’ boy NFL agent for the Cowboys and former A&M football player with a passionate love for Wienerschnitzel. Last I heard, he was trying to get his friend Jerry Jones in on buying a franchise with him because there are no locations close to his house but Jerry remained skeptical about its value as a joint business venture. My mother told me throughout my childhood that Lisa had ended a perfectly good marriage with her first husband to chase something new; that I was evil and selfish just like her. Lisa looks happier than ever.
Feb 28, 2025
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steelyfan1998 the way I was half asleep when I made that comment and didn’t put the 8,..
steelyfan1998 I have really been on one lately I’m enjoying writing more than ever so thank you for reading and it’s high praise coming from you :>
taterhole more earnestly, thank you for sharing. I love hearing stories such as these. As I’ve uncovered more and more about my family, it’s so clear to see how things were passed down. Why my parents were/are the way they are, why I then became the way I am. It’s beautiful and frightening and so so human.
mossyelfie thank you I’m so glad you enjoyed reading. You might enjoy the Substack post I wrote about Gore Vidal that’s pinned to my profile it’s an examination along the same lines!!! it’s the most fascinating part of genealogy and I can’t get enough of it seeing all of these patterns and where they continue and where they break…
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I have a lot of terrible memories that took place there but there are also beautiful memories. they had a comfortable warm and inviting home in the country and in the moments where I wasn’t being confronted with my family dysfunction I felt so normal. They called the bedroom my sister and I would stay in the princess room; it had two twin beds and a huge collection of VHS tapes, board games, and vintage children’s books. When I grew up my boyfriend and I got to stay in the one of the grownup rooms with en suite bathroom, pictured, which was a defining moment for me. I loved waking up before everybody, making coffee in the sun room, sitting there and reading the Dallas Morning News looking out into the garden. My grandfather sold the house before we had our falling-out and they’ve since passed so I couldn’t go back even if I wanted to.
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I would also say my paternal grandfather's house, which sat on a huge tract of land with pecan and pomegranate trees which we would pick up off of the ground. An irrigation dam ran behind it. In the winter, I would stomp on the cracked dry earth to break it beneath my feet, and shatter the ice that would form in the bird bath.
The walls were lined with my great grandmother’s pastel art from when she went to finishing school and my grandmother’s embroidery pieces. There was a wood paneled library with smoke-stained classic books, many of which I have with me today. My dad and his brother had a play room painted in primary color blue, yellow, and red, and my sister and I could play with all of their old toys and look at their old books. My grandmothers glass shoe and bell connection as well as her vanity set had all been left exactly as they were and I would admire them every time we visited. She died before I was born but I always felt a strong connection to her and I would love to have space to display her collections someday!
And I adored my grandfather who had been so prickly with my father and his brother but was so sweet to me. He would always give me porcelain dolls he bought on QVC. his house smelled like rotten bananas because he would buy them and forget to eat them. He died when I was about six years old and I said why couldn’t it have been my other grandfather that died (lol). I miss him a lot and I think he would be proud of me! 🫶
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Oh and my mom‘s dead gay best friend Jackie’s house which he shared with his partner Aaron, a sculptor who was close friends with Cormac McCarthy. I learned everything about sophistication in decor from them and their house was my favorite place on earth. He would have a huge Christmas party every year and go BALLS TO THE WALL DECORATING; other professors from the university and artists would hobnob and I would eat inappropriately too many hors d’oeuvres (he would get all of his charcuterie and shrimp cocktail from COSTCO). His kitchen had black and white checker board floors with cherry red accents and Betty Boop decor. I miss him so much too!!!
Jul 18, 2024
An old man comes into my line , hunched over and dragging his feet,
As he puts items on the conveyor belt i see his knuckles white, and taunt with letters spelling “R-I-T-A”
RITA reveals his youth to me, she paints à vision of the couple behind him
I can see him standing with à woman, who’s young with à soft voice that creeps under the music my job is playing.
She buys à single bag of candy smiling as her child pulls on her arm.
Her partner, doesn’t seem to match the town we’re in and when he puts cash on the counter his knuckles read “R-I-C-O” instead,
RICO’s face mixes into someone from home and I wonder if he’ll live the same life as the man in front of him or meet the same fate as the latter.
Will he be able to retire in à sleepy town like Rita’s lover?
Or will he die young, far away from the smiling girl trying to prove himself?
His mother would wake up in à cold sweat to 30 missed calls. She’ll think of him at 6, nervous for his first day of school and collapse on the floor at his funeral. His childhood friends would rush over even though they haven’t seen him outside of Facebook in 16 years
But they’ll remember the important things, like him learning to ride his bike and getting à tattoo to match his dad for his approval even though it didn’t work. His dad would look at the casket and shed his first tears in à decade realizing that perhaps he was too hard like his father before him
After the quiet of the funeral, his friend would go back home to his empty apartment and have à longing for home and feel the need to visit home to see his mother to reminisce.
She would be the woman coming into my line now. Smile lines reveal to me the years of joy he’s brought her and in her bag, 6 oranges symbolizing good luck. She tells me the good news of her son visiting and tells me while talking that hes far older than me
I smile and ask her to guess my age “17” she says proudly. I feel disappointed that she didnt guess correctly. Everyone says that I’ll miss these years of mistaken Identity. But in my youth I wish to skip it. At age 20 , I wish I had à life of tattoos and lines that express à life full of laughs
I’m aware that with this change that no one will see me as the girl that I am anymore but this refined thing. No one would see me as carefree and fun loving as à mother but irresponsible and immature. At the young age of 40 no one will see me as curious but nosy and stupid
By then I won't be insecure but desperate, by then I should be wise.
I wonder if the woman in front of me remembers her first boyfriend vividly or her mother cutting her deeply for the first time or does she just feel the grooves that have been carried in her
At 60 will she remember being at the edge of the windowsill at 14 and view it as an error of her youth? And when she saw the same signs of decline in her own daughter will she ignore it like her mother had done her and instead clasp her daughters hands in prayer and force her to her knees. Or would she view her daughter pulling away as necessary instead of à sign of abandonment and remember that in her youth she was her daughter and vice versa
Feb 13, 2025
Because these are the moments I cherish most in life, and they feel so integrated into who I am that it’s hard to recall them individually…
* Going to reclaimed lumber yards, architectural salvage shops, quarries, plant nurseries, and the DUMP with my dad in his bright red '90s GMC Sierra.
* Going to the alpaca farm with my family and seeing my mom get her hair eaten by a camel (see below photo which is a picture of a picture of our ancient family dome iMac—my dad managed to immortalize this moment forever. I’m the one with the denim hat).
* Snow in the desert… almost never happened, but when it did, it was a big deal, so it’s still special to me every time I see snow living up north.
* Every moment I spent with my dearly departed childhood pets and my own three pets that have passed. I feel lucky to have documented my time with my pets so thoroughly, so I can look back and remember every little moment.
* Going to my grandparents’ house on the lake in the DFW area for Christmas. Before my grandmother developed dementia, she had a distant, chilly WASPish demeanor but showed her love through her homemaking. They had a beautiful home with the most relaxing and cozy atmosphere. I loved waking up early with her and my grandfather before everybody else, pouring a cup of freshly percolated coffee, and sitting in the sunroom reading the Dallas Morning News as the sun came up. The ticking of their clocks and the sounds of them puttering around in the kitchen, starting some elaborate breakfast, put me at ease. I had a very complicated relationship with my grandfather, to say the least (which you can read about in the attached link—I tried to embed it in this parenthetical but the link window is broken), but their house gave me a feeling of being home that I never had anywhere else.
Nov 28, 2024
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My dad teases me about how when I was a little kid, my favorite thing to do when I was on the landline phone with somebody—be it a relative or one of my best friends—was to breathlessly describe the things that were in my bedroom so that they could have a mental picture of everything I loved and chose to surround myself with, and where I sat at that moment in time. Perfectly Imperfect reminds me of that so thanks for always listening and for sharing with me too 💌
Feb 23, 2025
Schedule sent my resignation email for the morning, effective immediately ✅💅
Feb 27, 2025
🖐
I’ve been thinking about how much of social media is centered around curating our self-image. When selfies first became popular, they were dismissed as vain and vapid—a critique often rooted in misogyny—but now, the way we craft our online selves feels more like creating monuments.
We try to signal our individuality, hoping to be seen and understood, but ironically, I think this widens the gap between how others perceive us and who we really are. Instead of fostering connection, it can invite projection and misinterpretation—preconceived notions, prefab labels, and stereotypes. Worse, individuality has become branded and commodified, reducing our identities to products for others to consume.
On most platforms, validation often comes from how well you can curate and present your image—selfies, aesthetic branding, and lifestyle content tend to dominate. High engagement is tied to visibility, not necessarily depth or substance. But I think spaces like PI.FYI show that there’s another way: where connection is built on shared ideas, tastes, and interests rather than surface-level content. It’s refreshing to be part of a community that values thoughts over optics.
By sharing so few images of myself, I’ve found that it gives others room to focus on my ideas and voice. When I do share an image, it feels intentional—something that contributes to the story I want to tell rather than defining it. Sharing less allows me to express who I am beyond appearance.
For women, especially, sharing less can be a radical act in a world where the default is to objectify ourselves. It resists the pressure to center appearance, focusing instead on what truly matters: our thoughts, voices, and authenticity. I’ve posted a handful of pictures of myself in 2,500 posts because I care more about showing who I am than how I look.
In trying to be seen, are we making it harder for others to truly know us? It’s a question worth considering.
Dec 27, 2024